The Week of Living Wildly
by newclassic
Summary: au: "There's a very good reason why I'm sitting in a jail cell at 3 A.M. on a Friday night." One week, New York City, a womanizer, and the girl who changes everything. Zach-centric. For Asha.
1. the prologue

**prologue.**

There's a very good reason why I'm sitting in a jail cell at 3 A.M. on a Friday night.

Usually when guys fuck up this badly, there's a girl involved. I'm no exception to that. Trying to impress a girl and you end up failing miserably? Getting into a fist fight with some other guy over a girl you hardly know? Having your heart broken because you didn't predict how fast you'd fall? Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. We've all heard those trite love stories, what else is on the menu?

I'm going to be very up front and tell you this is not a love story. Does it start out that way? Sure, go wild. But as I look back on the week that led me to this point, I realize that this story is an amalgamation of many different ones.

I glance over at Grant, looking exhausted in his rumpled tuxedo as he absentmindedly sketches in his trusty sketch pad. Bex is on the left of him, fast asleep and resting her head on his shoulder, wearing a Mexican poncho and a sombrero and looking every bit as ridiculous as it would seem. With them, it's the story of my best friends. The story of how the three of us can't seem to stay out of trouble. The story of how nothing ever goes to plan, even when we try our hardest.

On the right side of me is Macey, the princess who somehow wiggled her way into our tight trio. She's awake, tapping her nails on the arm of my chair and her fake fairy wings keep hitting me in the chin, but I don't say anything because I know how anxious she is. McHenrys don't get arrested, I presume. She's the story of the lonely heiress in need of new friends; the story of the bored rich kid with too much time and too much money on her hands.

And me? I'm the story of the cool Casanova who seemingly found his dream girl through her backpack. The story of the guy who's willing to do whatever it took to hold on to the fleeting idea that, yes, love did exist. The story of a cynic trying to open his horizons.

But it's not a love story.

"Goode," one of the burly police officers calls me up, looking down menacingly at our group of misfits. "You're up." He gesturesfor me to follow him to his office for questioning. Of course I would be first, I played the biggest part in this, after all.

Macey's nails stop tapping, Grant looks up from his sketch book, and Bex finally wakes up from her unfairly peaceful slumber. What they all have in common, though, is the strange look of fear and bravado on their faces.

The office is cold and bare, only a desk, some chairs, and a steaming pot of coffee. The cop shuffles around a few papers and fidgeted with a pen, his expression as stoic as ever. A classic trick. Keep them waiting, and they'll crack like eggs.

To my surprise, the officer pours me a cup of coffee in a chipped mug. All signs point to, "you're not leaving any time soon."

"Mr. Goode," he begins, filling out a form and looking back at me expectantly. "Can you tell me why you're here?"

"Sir," I respond, keeping my voice level, "it's a long story."

He snorts in a way that tells me he's heard that excuse once a day for the past decade. It's a funny phrase. You think you're explaining your problem away in a matter of four words, when in actuality you're only making your audience more curious. The long stories are the best ones, you know something so incredibly interesting or bizarre had to happen that it can't be summarized in a matter of a few words. Long stories meant that it's a journey to get to the ending, and if you're lucky, it'll all be worth it in the end. At least, that's what I hoped.

"So start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

* * *

**an: i'm not very good at author's notes. so i'll make it a list:**

**- this will be about 5-6 chapters, one for each day leading up to that friday (monday-friday)  
**

**- it's a zammie, but not in the way you'd think.**

**- asha is weird. but this is dedicated to her anyway.**

**- you should tell me what you think about this :)**

**- you, your mother, your grandmother, etc should go read "the art of tomorrow" by me and asha (commander in blue) like rite nao.**

**bye,**

**em!**


	2. sunday

**day one: sunday.**

"I'm bored." Looking back at all the trouble I've gotten myself in these past few days, those two words were the driving force to, well, everything. It was Sunday night, just a little past eight o'clock in the most exciting city in the world—New York. People were just getting off of work, clubs were just opening, and if that wasn't enough, it was a clear night with all the stars somehow managing to shine brighter than any street light.

And where were my friends and me? In our apartment. Sitting on the balcony. Eating takeout food.

"Seriously," Bex Baxter said once again, with a touch of theatrics, "I'm bored." To Bex, being bored is one of the worst sins you could ever commit, right up there with not putting the toilet seat down and putting empty milk containers back in the fridge. As you can presume, most of those sins consist of things that her roommates, Grant Maris and myself, do on an almost daily basis.

Wondering how this wacky sitcom-esque trio began? Here's a little back story for you: Grant and I met Bex while she was arguing with a street vendor in Times Square. If she was to recall this story, she would've used the term "_firmly haggling_", which is only as dirty sounding as you want it to be. Anyway, there she was, this pretty girl screaming some not-so pretty words at an elderly man. Eventually, Grant and I decided it would be best to stop the madness before a crime was committed and even more tourists were scared off. So, we pulled her away into a little diner and gave her a stern talking-to.

(Not really. You don't give Rebecca Baxter stern talking-to's.)

But we did find out that like us, she was nineteen years old. She was transferring to NYU (our school) from the University of London and had been in the city for a few hours before getting into her Times Square tiff. Turns out, she was looking for a place to live and we were in desperate need for a third person to help pay rent on our Lower East Side abode. The rest, as they say, is history.

"It's a Sunday night," Grant pointed out, always the voice of reason. "There's nothing to do," which actually meant that he didn't want to go out so he could continue on his charcoal sketch for his art portfolio.

Grant and I had been best friends since birth. Born and bred in the city, we were inseparable from the moment we born in the same hospital, the same day, and only a few hours apart. Fate intervened when it was discovered that our mothers were "the very best friends" in high school and "wouldn't it be amazing if we took the boys on play dates?" Our childhood was a swirl of running around our Brooklyn neighborhood as kids, playing subway tag as adolescents, and attempting to pick up snooty Manhattan girls as young men.

But, as most best friendships go, we were opposites. Growing up, Grant was the responsible one. The old soul who was always the first to point out if my ideas were illegal or just too far fetched. While I was too busy with the hedonistic side of life, he was always there to keep me in check. You would think someone as sensible as him would be an accountant or something, but no, Grant's one true love was art—the least sensible trade, as we're conditioned to believe. Regardless, watch out for this kid, he could be the next Da Vinci or Rembrandt for all I know.

"There's got to be something to do," Bex pressed, sitting up from her lounge chair to face us. "Think, people, think."

It was the third week into the summer, and we were already suffering from post-school boredom. Something about not having to write an eight page paper in one night or cram for a final was extremely unsettling.

"Well, we went to the movies last night, went to that party in Williamsburg the night before, and Zach made us spend about sixty dollars a few days ago to follow that one girl into Madame Tussaud's."

"In my defense," I spoke up, "she was exceptionally good-looking—"

"Aren't they all?" Grant interjected with an eye roll.

I continued with acknowledgment. "And I only wanted to get her number so—"

"—you could call her up, bring her back here, have a bit of fun, and then kick her out the next morning," finished Bex with a smirk.

"Oh, look how lucky I am, to have two friends think so highly of me!" I deadpanned, throwing a chopstick at Grant's head.

The two ignored me. "Remember the time he told—shit, what was her name? Kara or Kayla or something," Grant said to Bex, "but yeah, he broke up with her by telling her that he was moving to Ukraine for a work study job. Helping deaf orphans."

I thought the deafness was a nice touch, really added a bit of sentiment to the story. Karla bought it in a heartbeat and occasionally emails me, asking for photos of my orphans.

Bex cringed. "Nothing beats the time where he told Tina Walters that he couldn't commit to her because, according to him, I'm a closeted lesbian and I may harbor feelings for her."

"Sorry for being a considerate friend!"

"Bullshit!" she exclaimed, kicking me in the leg. "She still thinks I'm a lesbian."

I'll admit it, I don't have the best history with girls. While Bex and Grant would consider that the understatement of the century and me a player, I prefer to think of myself as a seasoned expert on the opposite sex. For me, there was nothing wrong with setting off to find a little lady company and keeping it mellow at the same time. I don't go out looking for relationships or anything remotely serious, so I expected the same for any girl who showed interest in me.

(And there's quite a few girls, I'm proud to say.)

Wanna know a secret? True love isn't dead, it wasn't alive to begin with. Love is a chemical mindfuck that turns men into cowards, women into shrews, and February 14th into a competition to spend the most money on corporate produced cards and flowers that will undoubtedly shrivel up in a few days. And for what? The chance to change your Facebook status to "in a relationship" or have some irrelevant person occupy your time because you're too boring to find something else? Keep it like nature intended it to be: physical.

"All You Need Is Love", my ass. All you need is some good friends, some good music, and enough good atmosphere to make you forget your problems, if only for a moment.

Bex and Grant were listing off all of my former flings this month (Bianca, Eva, Molly, white Nadine, black Nadine, Asian Nadine...) when I finally said, "Monte Carlo."

The pair stopped discussing the merits of the various Nadines and looked me quizzically. "Monte Carlo?" Grant repeated, raising an eyebrow.

I stood up from my chair and looked over the balcony. The streets were as loud and alive as ever; the frenzied sounds of cars, passerby, and alarms ignited my eardrums, bonding together to say, "now now now."

"Monte Carlo" I exclaimed without a trace of uncertainty. "Get dressed, gentlemen. We're going out."

* * *

The Monte Carlo, as you probably assumed, was not a principality of Monaco. It was, however, a 1920s speakeasy and casino that had been refurbished into a music club. Located in the heart of the Lower East Side on Essex Street, it was the premier place for Grant, Bex, and I to go when there was nothing left to do.

After making ourselves look considerably less homeless, the three of us made the short trek to the club. We greeted the bouncer Artie, who was a manager for a 1970s punk band that cannot be named, and entered our domain. Like always, it was packed with too-cool scenesters, artist types, and bored private school kids who desperately tried to look like they belonged to the outcasts.

We grabbed a table in the back, an old Blackjack one still left from it's Prohibition days. The band playing was fairly decent but nothing to alert the presses about. After ordering a round of nachos, the three of us settled nicely into our environment, reveling in the vibes of the people around us.

"You do realize this is exactly what we were doing at home, just in a different place right?" Grant stated before taking a sip of his drink.

"Of course not!" I countered playfully, "I don't have girls eye-banging me at home." I nodded my head in the direction of the unsubtle waitress batting her eyelashes at me.

"Well you do," Bex began thoughtfully, "but Grant tries to play it off as having something in his eye."

Grant put a hand to his heart and gasped. "You just don't understand our relationship, Rebecca."

"Nobody does," I agreed, gripping his hand with mock passion.

A guy—the try-hard type with a fedora, frameless glasses, and suspenders—bounded up to our table, probably completely unaware of how much of a douche he looked like. He met Bex dead in eyes and said, "Hey, wanna dance?" Simple as that, no other niceties.

She briefly looked at us before shrugging. "Why not?" she answered. She stood up and led him into the wild dance floor.

"That was fast," I murmured to myself, studying Grant's bitter expression. Remember when I said art was his true love? Bex was a close second, as she was everything he wasn't: daring, blunt, and dramatic. Not that he'd admit it any time soon, he'd rather pine and sulk about his unrequited love than actually pursue it. Bex isn't any help either, she's famously blind to things that are blatantly in front of her, like cars ("fuck you, I'll cross the street when I want") or doors ("I've always wanted to go on a scaffold"). Either way, this relationship had no progress.

"He looks like a douche," Grant said, unintentionally vocalizing my thoughts. If he had unglued his eyes from our roommate, he would see that at least seven girls were eyeing him. He was painfully unaware of the effects of his brooding artist demeanor on most women. "He radiates douche."

I cringed. "That sounds pleasant."

"I'm serious."

"Because douche radiation is such a light hearted topic." But Grant wasn't listening. Instead, he marched off into the dance floor, a group of girls conspicuously following him.

At that point I figured, "_if you can't beat them, join them_" and I got up and headed into the heart of the crowd. The band had switched over into this extremely loud clash of guitars and synth, the result was the offbeat lovechild between punk and house music. My earlobes were throbbing as I tried to look for my friends or anyone to dance with, while the strobe lights nearly blinded me at every turn.

And then I saw her.

Now, I'd be lying if I said she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, because she certainly wasn't. Her flaws stared me right in the face. Her light brown hair was too flat, her lips were a little too thin, her eyes were a weird mix between blue and green. I'd seen better, I'd been with better.

Everything about her screamed average, except she wasn't. Not by a long shot.

There was something in the way that she was dancing so care freely, unlike the other patrons who cared too much about how they would come off. The way she wore this ridiculous dress straight of a 1970s hippie commune with a paisley print backpack and didn't look the least bit self-conscious. The way her laugh sounded so pure and genuine when she threw her head back to let it out.

She was strange. She was unlikely. She was the antithesis of every girl I had ever been involved with.

It was only when two chuckles snapped me out of a daze that I realized I was staring. Grant and Bex had seen it all and had these scheming grins on. A terrible sign for me.

"What?" I shouted over the music. My voice was practically inaudible over the pounding beats.

They exchanged a knowing glance before Grant yelled in my ear, "I dare you to go get her!" His breath was hot against my cheek.

"What?" I screamed in disbelief. Partly because I was shocked that they would ever think they'd have to dare to me to approach a girl (what were we, ten?). Partly because for the first time in a long time, there was a girl I didn't know how to approach. She was an outlier, I knew that immediately.

"Do it!" Bex laughed, adjusting the douche's fedora on her head, "now!"

There few things that I, Zachary W. Goode, could never deny: a pretty lady, a cold drink, and a challenge. Without another word, I followed Backpack Girl off the dance floor and toward her table in the back. In the span of a few seconds, I had lost her in the crowds. My height was no advantage to me; for a moment it seemed like every girl in the whole damn place had the same build and hair.

But then I spotted that paisley print backpack hanging haphazardly off of a chair in the back. There was nobody else around and for the most part, it looked abandoned. Instantly, a few options jumped to my mind:

A.) Sit and wait by the bag. She'll have to come back eventually, right? Even though that could minutes or hours, depending on how much energy she had. But still. That's an awfully long time to wait for a girl, even one as seemingly bizarre as her. Which brought me to...

B.) Forget her, because there were so many other girls there. Gorgeous girls, leggy girls, busty girls. But I've seen enough of those girls. It was a bit like a television re-run, and I was starting to get bored. I needed something new, I needed to do something new.

C.) Throw all inhibitions and just take her bag. Because she'll go crazy looking for it and then I'll just find out her address if there was a wallet in there, and then return it to her all nonchalant and shit, claiming you just found it lying around. And I'd be her hero, and she'd be the one fawning over me. This plan could not possibly fail, right?

And just before I started to list the many, _many_ reasons that it could (and would) go wrong, I grabbed her backpack, put on my best poker face, and walked out of the Monte Carlo like I _wasn't_ committing theft for the sake of a challenge.

* * *

**an:**

**- thanks for all the reviews/alerts/favorites. but if you're gonna alert/favorite, please leave a review. it's a bit counter productive to like something without reasoning, no?**

**- like i said before, this isn't a typical zammie story. i need you guys to remember that and trust me when i write ridiculous things like zach stealing a bag, the thief.  
**

**- zach and grant have a beautiful bromance.  
**

**- speaking of bromances, i miss you, asha. i miss the way you massage my legs when they fall asleep from having to sit down and write stuff. come back to meeeeee**

**- ugh what a rambly chapter, asha's rubbing off on me. curse her and her love of description!  
**

**- there is maceyness is the next chapter. be prepared!**

**bye,**

**em!**


	3. monday, part one

**day two: monday, part one.**

"_You stole her bag_?" That was the very first thing Grant and Bex said when they returned back to our apartment and I had recounted the the story of my actions the the club. They were both overcome with a little awe, except Bex's bordered on the impressed side and Grant's teetered towards shocked and scandalized.

The paisley print backpack was small, almost like a rucksack. The fabric was worn and patched and the colors had faded from a seemingly fluorescent green and blue to a pale teal and navy. The ends of the straps were frayed, like somebody had been pulling at them. In one glance, I could immediately tell that this was not just a bag, it was a storyteller.

The three of us sat around the bag in silence as if we were patiently watching a work of art, but with the fragility of a bomb squad. I was at a stalemate: I got the bag from The Girl (as she will henceforth be referred to) but what now?

"So," Bex's raspy voice broke through the quiet, "are you going to open it?"

"WHAT?" Grant exclaimed, leaping up to his feet and startling Bex and I. "You can't open it! You have to take it back!"

Bex and I exchanged a look of disbelief. "You're taking the bag back," Grant repeated. "Tell me you were planning on taking it back." He looked at me with serious eyes.

The unresponsive looks on our faces prompted him to add, "...You're going to take it back to the club, return it to the bouncer, and stay away from a life of crime, right?"

Ignoring his freak out any the notion of rules being broken, Bex said, "Open the bag." Grant opened his mouth to counter, but she quickly replied, "Chill, Grant. He already stole it. What's the problem with taking a little peek?"

His eyebrows furrowed, a sign of surrender. "The problem is," he said through gritted teeth, "Zach's already committed theft. Why up the ante with invasion of privacy?"

"Who's gonna find out?" she quipped with a shrug. "Are you gonna call the police on us?" She laughed.

Grant frowned, crossing his arms across his chest furtively. "I repeat, _theft_ and _invasion of privacy_." He sighed before stating, "I want no part in this. I'll be in my room." He gave us one more disappointed shake of the head before grabbing some aspirin and retreating away.

When the door to his room closed, Bex turned to me and said, "Well?"

As evident, I had been silent through this whole ordeal. On one hand, I agreed with Grant that, yeah, committing (a minor) theft was still wrong. But, as Bex said, I might as well go all the way. Questions rushed through my mind, namely what could possibly be in the bag? What could happen if I looked inside? Or why the hell did I even take it?

Then, the bag came flying at my face. Aptly catching it, I looked over to Bex with a dumbfounded expression. She raised an eyebrow and said, "Go for it, mate."

That was all the encouragement I needed. Within seconds, I had emptied out the contents of the bag. There wasn't as much as I expected, but man, was it unexpected. My eyes ran over the treasure, taking in every single object:

- A worn copy of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.

- A scratched fourth generation purple iPod, containing music from The Libertines, Nova Social, and Air Traffic.

- A ticket receipt for a show featuring Atticus and the Finches.

- An empty package of Fifty Nifties candy.

- A feather masquerade mask.

- A collection of various makeup, expired MetroCards, and other bits of trash.

You might consider that list and think, "What's so special about that? Sounds like a bunch of random stuff to me."

But what you should be thinking, "What are the chances, if there were any, that there is a girl who dances madly at underground music clubs, read one of the greatest books of all time (in my not so humble opinion), listens to some really excellent music, eats discontinued candy, and will be going to one of the most hyped up shows in the greater tri-county area?"

I'll tell you the chances: slim, next to zero, nearly _impossible_.

But what were the chances that I would be in possession of that very girl's backpack?

"What's in the bag?" Grant's muffled voice from his room echoed, though I was too distracted to mock his hypocrisy.

"Tosser!" Bex rolled her eyes. "Nothing important, just some junk."

_"Junk_?" I repeated in disbelief. Did she not see the amazing array of belongings, representing some of the heights of culture as I knew it? I waved the copy of Catch-22 in her face. "This is not junk!"

Probably fed up with being out of the conversation, Grant emerged out of his room with a floss in his hands. Whenever Bex and I are doing something that could be classified as suspicious, he uses dental hygiene as an outlet. Poor guy, great teeth.

He peered over the goods before saying with a disapproving tone, "Looks like junk to me."

My stomach clenched and I could feel my heart beat in my throat. They were both painfully blind to what was in front of them. "Not junk," I argued, "there's my favorite book, a ticket to see my favorite band, an iPod featuring some of my favorite songs, a bag of my favorite candy—"

"—and no wallet," Grant finished for me.

I had to suppress a cough. In my bewilderment over the fact that somebody had scarily similar taste to me, I missed the fact that there was one thing missing: any identification as to who that person may be.

_Shit._

"So now," Grant managed to say as he flossed with more vigor than needed, "you can't even return the bag back to her. You stole, looked through her stuff, and now you've dug yourself in a hole. I hope you're pleased with yourself." In case you're curious, Grant usually sounds like my nagging mother when he lectures me.

"I didn't dig myself in a hole," I replied sheepishly, more to myself than to him. Soon, I was reminded of the time in the ninth grade when I decided to say "fuck it" and ditch school for the day and go to Coney Island by myself. In the span of a few hours, I had successfully spent all my money on hot dogs and ride tickets that I didn't have enough to get back home, and stupid me, I forgot my student MetroCard at home. There I was, stranded on Coney Island of all places, no money, no phone, and to top it off? Grant told me that we ended up having surprise school festival that day, complete with free food of nearly every culture, music, and a day away from history class.

That was digging myself into a hole. But this? This was different. It had to be different. Right?

Bex was unnervingly quiet through Grant's continued spiel on my irresponsibility, a sign of scheming.

"...I'm telling you, we should just go back to the Monte Carlo and pray that somebody's still there so we can get this bag and this crime off of our chests. How much is everything in that bag worth? Maybe $100. Yeah, they can bust you for that. I don't want to be an accomplice, you could still get jail time. Before we know it, we'll be knee deep in some rough convicts who haven't felt the touch of an outsider in a long time—"

"Let's track her down," Bex said suddenly. Her voice was snap and domineering, a light bulb had most definitely gone off in her head.

"What?" Grant and I replied in unison.

Bex hopped up from the couch and started pacing the room with a wicked spark in her eye. "You said it yourself, Zach. It's your favorite book, your favorite candy, your favorite band...your favorite everything. Why let this kind of person just walk away?" She paused and nodded at me. "This is some freaky, serendipity style business. What if it's a sign from the universe?"

She was met with silence. Grant looked at her with a dumbfounded expression. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with Rebecca Baxter?"

"I'm serious!" she pressed on. "You've got to admit, we don't even know her first name and she's already better than all three Nadines." That wasn't much of a compliment, the Nadines were pretty vapid, and that was putting it lightly.

"It could be the beginning of something great, yeah?" she coerced me. "And, why not? It'll be fun."

"Okay," Grant started hesitantly, "assuming that you're on to something and not on something, we all try to find the girl. How do we even do that?"

That was the million dollar question. It was very clear from her frown that Bex was too caught up the idea of a city wide search for one person, possibly so she could use all of her wannabe private investigator skills.

Sighing, I figured that it was nothing but that, an idea. Still, there was a little part of me who wanted to believe her words; that extraordinary people really did exist in the realm of my life and not only that, but I could be a little extraordinary too and find them. Maybe there was more to life and girls than just Nadines and other nameless faces. Being stuck in a hole wasn't the half of it. But, it was only when I rested my head on the book that something peculiar caught my eye.

"_Purchased from Babbling Books, where the pages come alive._"

I knew that store. A rundown book store in midtown, right across from a more thriving Barnes and Noble's. Personally, I liked the rustic charm of Babbling Books and they were never too crowded like the competition. Plus, the workers always gave discounts to the regulars, which I assumed was a small bunch.

And then a light bulb went off in _my_ head.

The Girl shops at Babbling Books. Someone at Babbling Books might know the Girl. That someone could lead me right to The Girl.

"Babbling Books," I announced, much like yelling '_eureka_!' "We've got to go to Babbling Books, she'll be there. I know it." But at that very moment, I realized that it was nearly four in the morning and my body was operation on low battery.

Bex and Grant seemed to be very aware about the time as well, as she was half asleep on the couch and he looked much too comfortable on the floor.

"In the morning," I clarified to them with a yawn as I grabbed a pillow from the couch. Stretching out on the floor and letting the sounds of their snores and the noise from outside become my lullaby, I quickly fell into a sleepy daze. My last thought before slumber was I couldn't help but think of the image of a girl realizing her bag was missing and a boy digging himself out of a hole.

* * *

**an:**

**- once again, thanks for all the feedback :) it's great!  
**

**- okay, so i lied. there is no macey in this chapter. well, there was, but i had to break it apart because it was starting to get very rambly and a rival to "harry potter and the order of the phoenix" in length. but rest assured, macey's in the next chapter.**

**- i wasn't even planning on updating this today. but, ff decided to be a wanker and not let asha and i update "the art of tomorrow", so i figured why not? let's be productive, gang.**

**- reviews are cooler than any polar bear could hope to be. what a jerk, that global warming is.**

**bye,**

**em!**

**p.s.: why asha is the worst person to go to for a crisis:**

**"i'm not a doctor, but i'm prescribing you a nice healthy dose of SHUT THE HELL UP and STOP YOUR BITCHING."  
**


	4. monday, part two

**day two: monday, part two.**

Bright and early—well, as bright and early as you can get for going to sleep at four a.m.—Grant, Bex, and I bounded out of our home and made the journey to Babbling Books. By the time we were out, the humidity was sweltering and the fluorescent sun beat down on us. Usually, I would be the first to suggest that we call it a day and go swimming in our building's pool, but this day, I was a man on a mission.

Quickly stopping at the shop across the street for some grub, the three of us trekked over to the subway station, about a couple blocks away. I hated to admit it, but a part of me was ridiculously nervous about even going into the book store to search for The Girl. And this was coming from a guy who almost hooked up with the daughter of a very high ranking government official. But, dealing with The Girl? There were too many risks involved, mainly failure.

"Aren't you two excited?" Bex queried. Grant and I were both unusually quiet. "It's like a bloody mystery novel come to life."

"It's a lot of things come to life," Grant muttered to himself.

She lightly punched him in the arm. "Come on, Mr. Picasso, you needed to get out anyway. You've been slaving away on all your paintings for ages now." It was true. Grant was preparing for an art show in Williamsburg in a few weeks. Though his work was pretty fantastic already (namely the portrait he did of yours truly), his perfectionist mind kept telling him that he could do better.

He groaned. "Please don't remind me, I'm nowhere near ready. I'm like the Rebecca Black of the art world."

"Shut up," she laughed, grabbing his arm and resting her head on his bicep. Grant's face instantly lit up from that subtle bit of physical contact. "You'll do great. Plus, we've got bigger fish to fry right now. Namely, Zach's mystery woman."

A mention of The Girl and suddenly my insecurities bubbled up and exploded. "What if she's not there, guys?" I couldn't help but ask. "What if nobody knows her?"

Grant looked at me with a puzzled expression. "Wow, man...you're worried about this, aren't you?"

"Not worried," I sputtered, trying to backtrack. "Just...I don't want this to all be a waste, you know? Like you said, I stole her bag. I'm a crook." Despite my smooth cover-up of my real emotions, Grant's weary eyes told me that he saw through my facade. He always did.

"It won't be a waste," he remarked, but I knew what he meant was "take a risk." And as those words came from someone who's idea of a risk was drinking orange juice right after brushing his teeth, I appreciated it greatly.

_It won't be a waste_, I repeated in my head like a chant to get me pumped for the events to come. The more the words echoed in my mind, the less nervous I became. Why was I so anxious anyway? She was, underneath the books and music and candy, just some girl. I could deal with that. I could deal with anything.

Through slightly gritted teeth, I murmured to myself as I let Grant and Bex walk further in front of me, "It can't be a waste."

* * *

Babbling Books was a small, slightly dilapidated establishment. The bright blue store front was a contrast to the gray building it was housed within. Unfortunately for the owners of the Babbling Books, it was located directly across from a much more frequented Barnes and Nobles. It didn't matter to be though, because Babbling Books had something the corporate store didn't: information on The Girl.

The first thing you notice when you get into the store in the overwhelming smell of musty pages, pine, and citrus. The scent of old books was understandable, as the store was filled with stacks and stacks of secondhand and new literature. The last two I still didn't understand. The second thing you'll see is a creepy collection of porcelain owls, watching over you with unnaturally shiny and beady eyes. The third is a gigantic photograph of the owner of Babbling Books, Mrs. Polly Babble, who manages to be infinitely more intimidating than the owls. Other than that, it's a rather pleasant atmosphere.

Immediately, I strode up to the front counter. That day, Larry Gellar was working the cashier. If there was an Olympic event for "Ability to Be Unhelpful" , Larry would disqualified simply because he would annihilate the competition and possibly start a world war.

He was the last person who could help me find The Girl.

But, at that point, we were already there and I was determined not to make the trip a waste. Hestitantly, I greeted him, "Hey, Larry."

His red eyes (courtesy of his favorite plant) widened with surprise. "Goode! I haven't seen you in forever, man," he drawled, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, uh, I've been busy." Not really, he probably forgot all the times I've been in there in a drug induced haze.

When he caught a glimpse of Bex and Grant trailing after me and added, "Greg! Beth!"

"_Grant_," he corrected with a touch of disapproval. Grant had never liked Larry that much, especially given the fact Larry called him anything but his actual name.

"And Bex," she said, stifling a snort.

Larry nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah! Bex. Rhymes with sex, I love it!"

"Which part?" Grant asked dryly, only for me to elbow him in the ribs. We couldn't afford to be anything less than gracious with Larry right now.

"So, Larry," I began, putting on a winning smile, "I need a favor. You interested?"

He looked at me skeptically before taking a sip of his coconut juice. And by coconut juice, I mean he had literally stuck a straw into a fucking coconut. "A favor?" he clarified, "What are you on, Goode?"

"Nothing you're on," Bex joked under her breath.

Another elbow to the ribs. "Its not much of a favor," I said, choosing my words carefully, "just something that you can help me out with. Like the time I helped you out with your car?" A memorable moment from last year's Christmas was somehow assisting Larry deliver trees for decorating for a little extra cash. Except he didn't tell me that he was trying to drive all the way upstate in a car that was built in the seventies, so I spent Christmas Eve freezing my ass off somewhere in Schenectady trying to jump start the engine.

"Ah, what a wonderful Fourth of July," Larry replied with a lazy smile, making me lose any hope I had left in his competence.

Cutting to the chase never seemed like a better option. "Look, Larry," I sighed, taking the copy of Catch-22 out of the paisley bag, "Do you have any records of who bought this book? I really need to know." There was no point in describing The Girl to Larry. Knowing him, he'd give me the address of a sumo wrestler instead. Plus, it wasn't like her features were particularly distinguishable.

He slipped on a pair of frameless glasses (Grant coughed very loudly at the spectacle while Bex struggled to keep a straight face) and peered at the inside cover with an intense scrutiny. After holding my breath for a few moments, I exhaled when he looked back up at me with a deadly serious face.

"This book was bought here," he declared dramatically, handing me back the book with gusto. At that point, Bex erupted into a fit of laughter and Grant was massaging his temples in disbelief.

"Thank you, Larry. Really. You're an upstanding citizen," Grant scoffed, only for Larry to beam with pride.

Clenching my jaw, I handed the book to Larry again. "No, I just want to know who bought this book. This particular book here. The one that's currently in your hands," I said slowly, trying to be as clear as I possibly could.

Larry narrowed his eyes. "You don't have to be such an obvious prick, Goode. You look like you need to relax. I've got some—"

"You have to be kidding me," interrupted Grant, his head resting in his hands.

Finally, even I was reaching my breaking point. "Do you have a record of who bought this book or not, Larry?" I slapped the counter for emphasis, and also to ensure that that same hand wouldn't be in Larry's face.

"Someone's got anger issues," a new voice remarked, a voice that almost always made the hairs on my skin rise. I knew who it was even before I turned around.

Macey McHenry is a lot of things. She's beautiful, for one. With that shiny hair, killer legs, and bright baby blues—how could she not be? Filthy rich was another descriptor for her. Born to a senator for a father and a cosmetics heiress for a mother, she was too Upper East Side for people living in the Upper East Side. She was also far too haughty and proud due to all that blue blood, which made it all the more confusing as to why she was in a dingy book store. Yes, indeed, Macey McHenry was certainly many things.

Including my ex-girlfriend.

Before you clutch your heart from the shock of me having had a real, bonafide girlfriend at some point in my hookup cluttered life, let me explain myself. It was our senior year of high school, she went to the acclaimed Kifford Preporatory for Ladies in the heart of Manhattan while I was horsing around in public school. We met at a mutual friend's party, and well, it was all downhill from there.

We were doomed from the start: she was the amalgation of everything I hated in humanity (privileged, conniving, vapid) and I was the type of boy she tried so hard to avoid (over-confident, blunt, challenging). Occasionally, we had our little moments of thinking, "_yeah, this is actually nice, being with you and all_." She was bored with the boys at her school, I had enough with the girls at mine. You would think we could learn to love each other, right? Wrong. Our relationship was a mess of fights about nothing and everything, half-hearted make ups and full-minded make outs, and trying to be better than each other in general.

The one and a half month ordeal ended in the summer before we went off to college in an argument about something I don't even remember. I thought she was supposed to be across the ocean at Oxford, but imagine my shock when my own personal devil showed up at NYU's freshmen orientation. I think I hooked up with one of the room advisors just to get the image of Macey's evil smirk out of my head.

So when Macey was standing there, all gussied up in her trademark designer clothes, raising that eyebrow at me and curling her upper lip—all the dislike I had for her and our old relationship came back full force.

"Zachary," she greeted without a trace of emotion. Her eyes flickered to my friends, who gazed at her with a weird mix of curiosity and disgust on my behalf.. "Rebecca...Grant."

"McHenry," I stated, looking her up and down, "what the hell are you doing here?"

She clicked her tongue. "That's no way to talk to a lady, Goode." She paused for a moment to sneer. "But you were never good at that anyway."

"I repeat," I responded with an eye roll, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"Is it a crime to buy books?"

"For someone who's idea of literature is the latest issue of _Vogue_, I'd say yes."

That got her, because she tutted and said, "If you must know, I'm picking something up for a friend of mine." She gestured to Larry. "Do you have anything for a Preston Winters?" she asked expectantly.

Preston Winters. Of course she would be friends with somebody named 'Preston'. I'm just surprised it wasn't Chad or Chet with a last name that ended in "-ington the Third."

But even then, I wasn't going to let her distract Larry from helping me find The Girl. "Fuck off, McHenry. I was here first," I said, stepping in front of her.

"Fuck off," she mocked, stepping forward, "what happened to ladies first?"

"Call me when that applies to you."

"Oh, you are the—" But then she was promptly cut off by Larry, who had dropped a thick, white binder on the counter. The spine said "_RECORDS OF PURCHASES_." Gleefully, he grabbed Catch-22 and looked at the serial code on the side. He slipped on his frameless glasses once more and flipped through the binder with a determination I've never seen on Larry's face.

"You don't keep computer records?" Bex questioned as he went through pages and pages of the record book.

"Nah," Larry answered, "Mrs. Babble doesn't trust computers." Finally, he found the page he was searching for. But then, his face fell and he looked up at me with sad eyes. "Sorry, man, there's just the date of purchase. Paid with cash, too. No name or anything."

My stomach dropped about a thousand stories. Shit. There is no worse feeling than disappointment, especially when you think everything's about to work out just fine. Sighing in defeat, I walked away from the counter and had to resist the urge to vocalize my thoughts: it was a total waste. This day. This hunt. This girl.

Like the ace friends they are, Bex and Grant followed me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Macey give me a peculiar frown before ascending to the counter to get whatever she needed for Preston-Chad-Chet Wintersington the Third.

"This sucks," Bex lamented, look at the book with sadness. "S'okay, mate, I guess it's over now. There's no point in bothering—"

But then Grant gasped. Loudly. He exclaimed to me, "The concert!"

"What?" The confusion of me and Bex was in perfect unison.

With a madness in his eyes, he said, "Quick, what's the date of the concert ticket receipt? The one in the bag?"

Not knowing where he was going, I dug in the backpack and fished out the receipt for The Girl's ticket to see Atticus and the Finches. "It's for Tuesday," I answered dully. And then it hit me. That was tomorrow. At seven p.m. at the Gilded Theater.

"It's for Tuesday!" I yelled out in unabashed delight, high-fiving Grant for his perception. Suddenly, everything seemed much brighter. We had a location and time where The Girl would be. But, there was only one minor setback.

Bex clapped her hands together. "So, how are we going to get in there?" Did I say setback? I meant gigantic road block. Atticus and the Finches have been sold out for weeks now, there was no way we were getting a ticket on such short notice.

"Fuck," is all I had to say to that.

"Shit," said Grant.

"Pig piss," added Bex.

The answer to solving the mystery of The Girl was staring me right in the face, only to have the universe rain on my parade and ruin it all. The feeling of near-soul crushing defeat burned my insides once more.  
Hitting my head on the wall, I groaned, "This is the worst. We have a better chance of stealing the Dalai Lama's underwear than getting in." Another thud to the wall. "It's impossible. Nobody can get access to the Gilded for Atticus and the damn Finches on such short notice."

A shadow loomed over me, and the intoxicating smell of Chanel no. 5 clouded my mind and my senses. There was a chill in my presence; Macey had a way of doing that.

She opened her red lips to speak, and when she did, I knew that she was changing this quest of ours drastically.

"I can."

* * *

**an:**

**- your reviews make me smile, thanks guys!  
**

**- ooh, macey and zach used to be a couple? what heresay! conflict.  
**

**- asha and i updated "the art of tomorrow and things we'll never learn", so go be a productive member of society and check it out.  
**

**- larry is the king of my heart. second to asha, of course.**

**- tell me what you think, yeah?  
**

**bye,**

**em!**


	5. tuesday

**day three: tuesday.**

There are many things I thought I would never do in my life. Go surfing in Australia, skydive down the Grand Canyon, or successfully start my own band and go onto become the next Jim Morrison or Jimi Hendrix or some other musical genius. These events were so ridiculously far fetched and outside of the realm of reality, they just weren't meant to happen.

Up until last Tuesday, I thought going to a club with Macey McHenry was one of them.

Shortly after shattering the world as I know it by agreeing to help Bex, Grant, and I get into the Gilded Theater to see Atticus and the Finches (and hopefully The Girl), I soon remembered the advantages of knowing a person like Macey. The McHenry name was worth more than any check could possibly hope to be; her societal position made her a walking exception to any rule. Unfortunately, I also quickly remembered the dangers of associating with her.

When the four of us left Babbling Books, Bex had made up some lie about going to a job interview while Grant claimed he just had to go back home and finish up some paintings. Realistically, my so-called friends didn't want the burden of having to bring Macey up to speed on The Girl situation, leaving me with my ex and a very unpleasant job.

"Let me get this straight" Macey said as she took a long sip of her coffee. We had sat on the stairs of her old Manhattan brownstone, the shadow of the doorman loomed over us but she didn't seem to mind. "You find some girl at shitty club, who's into your kind of nonsensical shit, and now she's going to see an even shittier band tonight and you need to be there?"

"Could you repeat yourself?" I replied, rolling my eyes, "I couldn't hear you over all the shit."

"Well maybe you should—"

"Why are you helping me, anyway?" Eventually, the main question on my mind blurted out. Of all the time I've known her, she was never one to just offer aid just for the hell of it.

Her biting laugh had echoed in the air. "You stole a girl's backpack and now you can't find her and try to woo her. That's comedy gold."

"Shut up."

"What can I say?" she explained with a scoff. "She's weird, you suck at romance, and I'm bored. It's a lose-lose-win situation."

"Nice to know that even with having over a million dollars to your name, you can still be entertained by my failures," I deadpanned. "Never change, McHenry."

"Shut up." Her blue eyes met my green ones. "I'm doing you a favor, Zach. Remember that. You're really lucky that I don't like the pretentious, indie stuff you drown yourself in or else I'd save the tickets for myself."

My taste in music had always been a divisive issue between us. "I cry myself to sleep every night because I'm so thankful," I feigned gratitude. "Oh, St. Macey, what did I ever do find myself in the company of such a charitable soul?"

She frowned. "You're not funny."

"I was being serious."

"Fuck you." She had a way of making vulgarities sound infinitely more polite in her refined, private school-bred voice. "I'm helping you on one condition, Goode."

"Which is?"

Standing up from her perch on the stairs, she smoothed out her already impeccably starched dress. With her dark hair blowing in the wind and the cerulean of her eyes contrasting with the newly grayed sky, she had looked like some sort of foreboding spirit—like she wasn't all there. "Wouldn't you like to know?" Macey had replied with a smirk before turning her back on me to go back into her home, leaving me in the onset of a storm and a neighborhood I would never belong to.

"Just remember this, Goode, you owe me!"

* * *

"Can somebody just shoot me in the head?" I groaned as I fastened my navy blue tie. Earlier that day, Macey had texted me to tell us that we'd all better _"look good enough to be seen with a McHenry_" and "_forgo our usually homeless men apparel_." In an attempt to obey her wishes, Grant, Bex, and I were surrounded by the cluster of clothes that scourged our apartment. For a group of people who went out frequently, we had a significant lack of owning anything that Macey would deem appropriate for a night on the town.

Bex appeared out of her room wearing an awkwardly cut formal dress. "A shot in the head is too lenient," she growled, "you deserve to be shredded apart by bears. Hungry ones, at that."

"How is this possibly my fault?"

She crossed her arms furtively. "Just because Macey's getting us into a concert doesn't mean we have to dress up like it's someone's Bar Mitzvah."

I snorted, "It's Macey. What do you expect me to do?"

"Have a little backbone? Tell her off? Not act like somebody who would have sex with a three-headed banshee if she demanded it?" Bex huffed before retreating back to her room to change.

"Don't give her any ideas," I muttered, stepping over the piles of clothes to look at my reflection in the mirror. Slightly wrinkled button down shirt. Tie. Old jeans. Trusty slip-ons I've owned since junior year of high school. My attempts at a little maintenance may not have been up to Macey's level, but it was the best I could do.

Fifteen minutes later, Bex came out of her room again. This time, in an outfit that was slightly more polished than her usual attire, something her slightly sour expression instantly negated. The only person who seemed even remotely excited about the night and the notion of looking presentable, surprisingly, was Grant.

"Cheer up, man," Grant said to me as we left our apartment and headed a few blocks over to the subway, "there's a good chance you'll see her tonight." And by "_her_", of course he meant The Girl. Except, I was just disheartened about having to deal with Macey as a price.

"Yeah, what are the chances?" I mumbled my response.

"Two-hundred to one."

I stopped in my tracks. "Bullshit," I replied, knowing full well that I was the math oriented brain of this duo and that he copied off all my work in our tenth grade statistics class. "How do you know?"

"Well," he began, sliding his MetroCard through the toll and entering the station, "the Gilded has a maximum occupancy of four hundred people, and we're going off of the assumption that half of them are women. And plus, there's always the serendipity principle."

"Serendipity principle?" I repeated, my face etched with disbelief.

Grant nodded with a lopsided grin. "Like Bex said, it's pretty weird that the girl whose bag you happened to steal happens to be into Atticus and the Finches and all that other stuff." He paused, stepping onto the train absentmindedly as Bex and I followed him. The evening train was usually packed, but we managed to actually find seats for once.

"Just hope that the universe decides to play in your favor. Maybe the stars will align tonight and it'll all—"

"It's not a bloody Taylor Swift song," cut in Bex with a snort.

"Still," he continued, "you gotta believe that it's all gonna work out, you know?"

I replied, "Yeah, I guess," even though I wasn't quite sure if I agreed with him or not. On one hand, it seemed incredibly naive to put so much hope in something as intangible and uncertain as fate. But on the other, there was something incredibly enticing about not worrying about any outcomes because, thank goodness, it's all predetermined._ Enticing_, I thought as we made the rest of our trip uptown, _but not logical_.

* * *

"Tickets?" The gruff bouncer of the Gilded Theater looked down at the three of us with a snarl, his unibrow furrowed and the slightly faded Judy Garland tattoo on his bicep flexed menacingly. I'm not one for exaggeration, but believe me when I say his gaze could probably break my arm.

Unfortunately, our ticket inside was nowhere to be seen. Even more unfortunate, we didn't realize just how vital Macey was to this going right or how much of a waste of time it was to wait in line knowing full well she wasn't there. Thinking in advance had never been one of our strong suits.

"Hold on a moment," I said to the bouncer with what I hoped was a winning smile. Quickly, I gestured for us to form a huddle and whispered to Bex, "If there was any time for you to use your womanly charms, it's right now."

"No," Bex and Grant said at the same time, though Grant's was a bit more impassioned. They exchanged a quick look before she added in an equally low voice, "If anything you should be the one to flirt with him."

"What? How is he gay? He's as straight as an arrow! Plus, you're the girl!"

"Oh yeah, because that tattoo just screams '_I like women_.' And fuck it if I'm the girl, we've already established that you're prettier—"

"Hey, Fitz," the cool tones of Macey's voice took us all by surprise and snapped us out of our argument. Simultaneously, we broke apart from our huddle to face her in all her blue blood glory. Dressed to the absolute nines (as always), she looked out of place for an Atticus and the Finches show, but I doubt she was even aware or even cared.

The bouncer—Fitz, I presumed—beamed at her. "Macey! How's your father?" he asked in his thick Queens accent.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "He's my father," she answered simply, and Fitz nodded knowingly.

Hoping to get her attention (and prove that we did in fact belong here), I greeted Macey casually, "Hey, McHenry."

Her eyes narrowed. "Hello, Goode."

Then, he pointed at Bex, Grant, and I. "You know these guys?" he questioned as he glared at all of us.

Waving a hand lightly she sighed, "Yes, I do," with a tinge of regret. "They're with me, so we'll just go right in, okay?"

Fitz beamed again. "Of course, Macey." As we followed her through the entrance into the threshold, all of the anxieties I had been holding in came flooding back. We were inside the Gilded. The band was to go on in about fifteen minutes. And somehow, somewhere, The Girl was inside, unaware of the very monumental effect she was having on my nervous system.

The inside of the Gilded was packed. Maybe Grant's math skills weren't so off, seeing as there had to be at least three-hundred people inside. The anticipated buzz of the show radiated in the air; Atticus and the Finches were renowned around this scene for putting on a great show and keeping the audience on their toes through the night. Tonight was no exception.

There were no seats in the Gilded, it was as if the rows and rows of chairs had just vanished from the vicinity—leaving an enormous dance floor in it's wake. Some cheesy 1950s-esque band—complete with pompadours and matching shiny jackets—were the opening act and set the tone for the rest of the night: loud.

Tapping me on the shoulder, Macey leaned into my ear and practically screamed, "I got you in, Goode. I'll be in the back." She flipped her hair and trotted off without waiting for my response, waving brightly at a few sweater-vested guys away from the chaos.

Well, then, I thought with a slight frown, not quite knowing how to react to her. Funny, when you break-up with someone, it's always weird to see how they approach other people. Like, did she ever flip her hair at me? Did she ever wave like her arm was going to fall off when greeting me? It makes you question the uniqueness of your own experience.

Before I even knew it, the lights in the theater dimmed and the shouts and cheers of the crowd reached new heights. "We are Atticus and the Finches," the lanky, bespectacled boomed into the microphone; his crisp British accent a far cry from the southern drawls of his namesake. He, like his bandmates, wore suits similar to the one Gregory Peck wore in the adapted movie.

"Just remember," the singer advised, playing a low strum on the electric guitar, "_it's a sin to kill a mockingbird_!" With that, the band exploded into their first song much to the utter delight of the entire audience. Their energy was contagious, almost everyone was jumping up and down and screaming the politically-centered lyrics right back to them. It wasn't until halfway through the song that I remembered I was here on a mission.

"Grant! Bex!" I yelled over the thrashing guitars and drums, trying to not get swallowed up by the pumped crowd. Frantically throwing my arms in the air to gesture that we should split up to look for The Girl, they eventually nodded in agreement before heading off into different directions.

The second I started to begin my search was the second I realized just how screwed I was.

In addition to the place being stuffed like sardines, it was too dark to see anything. Not even the occasional strobe light could have helped me. Making matters worse, Grant's math was extremely off. There had to be an infinite number of girls there overshadowing the guys. If it had been any other night, I would've been in heaven.

It wasn't enough that there was over three hundred girls there. No, they also just had to look somewhat similarly too. The Girl's quiet shade of light brown hair and average build made her one of a seemingly million. Not even her wardrobe could have been an indicator of her presence; it seemed like new rave hippie was the style of choice that tonight.

The set was half over and I was still aimlessly wandering around. Occasionally, I would bump into Grant or Bex, who were even less successful than me because they barely caught a look of her face in the Monte Carlo.

Time seemed to fly right past me, and I was beginning to think this was a hopeless endeavor.

"Oh, hey," I said, walking into a long, brown haired figure from behind. My eyes were nearly blinded by the crazy patterns and familiar dancing, and my heart skipped a beat. Until the figure turned around. And I got quite the suggestive look from a bohemian man who clearly was out of place in this concert and in that skirt.

Before he make a move, I coughed out, "Sorry, bro" and high tailed it out of there. That night was seriously heading down the shitter, and that was just the tip of the iceberg.

But then just when I thought the night couldn't possibly get any worse, the universe decided to laugh at my sureness and throw a curveball at me.

The band stopped playing their music suddenly. A tall security officer walked across the stage to a chorus of boo's and whispered something into the singer's ear. "We're sorry to announce this," the singer began, taking off his horned rimmed glasses nervously, "but we've just been notified of a potential fire hazard here, and I'm deeply sorry to say that the show's been canceled." His further statements were drowned out by the collective cries of anger by the audience, who yelled various expletives and even a few threats.

The security officers had to form a blockade around the stage as the band made their exit, and then they began to escort everyone off of the premises. Looking around me, my friends and Macey were nowhere to be found in the sea of faces. By that point, the levels of disappointment in my system had reached a climax, so their disappearance was numbed for the time being.

As I walked outside, a dark cloak of sadness covered me. Failure was an understatement, along with saying I felt like I could never be happy again, even though two cute band groupies were obviously eyeing me. Breathing in the fresh air after being nearly suffocating inside the huge cluster of chaos did nothing to alleviate the immense pressure on my lungs and chest. All the signs pointed to one fate—I was back in the hole I tried so desperately hard to crawl out of.

Just when I was about to call Grant to find out where the hell those two were and call it a night, his voice roared over the buzz of traffic and other noises. "Zach! Hey, wait up!" The hundreds of people who were also disappointed that night were still pouring out of the Gilded, but when the crowd eventually thinned out, my eyes landed on a sight I thought I would never,_ ever_ see.

It was Grant and Bex, looking grim as they made their slow way toward me, struggling to support a completely, totally, and utterly drunk Macey McHenry.

* * *

**an:**

**- thanks for all the reviews and alerts and favorites, it's vurry nice :)  
**

**- the macey/zach ex-relationship is very important to the story as a whole and finding the girl, but remember this before getting into a "omg this is not zammie what the hell em?" frenzy— they broke up for a reason.  
**

**- i have no seductive note to asha except: mmmm. she'll get it.  
**

**- reviews are always lovely, but please refrain from just telling me to 'update soon', because i'd really like to know what you actually think of it all. long or specific reviews make my heart skip, to be quite honest with you, and i'm sure this goes for all authors. **

**- and yes, atticus and the finches is a reference to the great "to kill a mockingbird" by harper lee, it's all hers so i'll disclaim that.  
**

**bye,**

**em!**


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